Tempered Flame
by Arcander
Summary: Join our young heroine as she goes through tragedy after tragedy, struggling to stay on top in a midst of betrayal, pain, and fire. slightly AU, shameless self insertion. One Shot. Made for friend's DL campaign


AN: This is something I wrote a while back for my friend's DragonLance campaign, hope you enjoy it.

**Tempered Flame**

The girl's brown hair glinted green in the waning sunlight at the palace of Qualinost. A feeling of dread coursed through her veins and she raced down the stone steps, ignoring the glances of those around her, wondering where the assumed lover of the Heir to the Speaker was going in such a hurry. Once outside the gates of the city, the girl, who by all estimation, looked to be no older than sixteen or seventeen, ran to her home, which was encircled by rows upon rows of trees which would protect those within from harm. The trees which were resilient to magic of all kinds, were serving as nothing more than kindling for the larger flame. The house was now nothing more than a burnt crisp, and inside the front doorway, a skeleton lay charred, half in the door, half out.

Tears coursed down her cheeks as she stared into the flaming ruins of her house. Her younger brother's prized racing stallion had escaped somehow; perhaps he was off in the fields molesting the neighbor's mares. It was just the two of us, a stallion with good speed, and a young girl, whose only knowledge of fighting lie in knowing how to slap a man hard across the face, and where to aim if unwanted attentions were being forced on her. But as a child she had watched her brother fight, and she had done hard, manual labor. Now the girl rode into a human establishment, and cut her hair, her glorious hair that had been the pride of her family. She sold it for a few gold coins. Those precious few coins were all the girl had, and she spent them sparingly. But pinched or not, they still ran out, and she was once again left wondering what to do.

The girl was sitting on a cold, dusty road, her threadbare cloak pulled tight around her. She had taken to selling anything she could, but there were things that she would not sink so low as to do. She remembered with a pang her golden locket, the one that caused a myriad of rumors, and she remembered how the person who bought it off of her sneered, and called it shoddy elven work. The girl was tempted to walk away and find someone else to sell it too, but she knew that there was no one else. That was the last of her possessions, and the girl was reduced to stealing food. A young man, a few years older than her noticed her one day, and singled her out. He gave her an address and told her to report there that night. It was with this chance encounter, that the young girl began her life as one of the lawless, a rogue.

The sad tale of her life grew sadder, but first the girl learned defense, true defense. She was given first a pair of daggers, and she was taught how to use them, and in a thief's den you learn quickly, or death will be the least of your worries. After mastering the art of the knives, the head of the guild took a special interest in her, and after noticing how well she performed both on stage as a dancer and with her knives, he decided to begin teaching her the finer arts of fighting. It was her destiny some may say to learn to kill.

By the time the girl's year anniversary of stealing and dancing and fighting came, she was sickened by the purposelessness of it. She moved on, moved off, never even sparing so much as a glance back at the town and the inhabitants who may have saved her life, and she said nothing of the lives that she took as she rode away from the hideout that was engulfed in flames. Leaving the city at the same time as her was an elf, one who had the air of being around dragons. She made note of the fact that his elvish was spoken in a way unsure of civilization, and his words were crude, ill-formed, and halting.

She accompanied him to a settlement of men and women who by some chance of fate had met up with a silver dragon. The dragon, they named Mercury, but they knew nothing. I communed with the dragon, and learned of his true identity. He was Kithar, and he was an elder dragon.

The girl's life had taken a turn for the better, and she allowed herself to submit to the routine of the camp. The elf's elvish had gained proficiency, and she deluded herself with obscure notions that he had just not spoken with another of his kind for a while. All caution lost to the wind, she forgot what she had learned in the town of despair and fire. She began to trust this man, and eventually, she fell in love. They exchanged kisses and made excuses to work on the same project, but the word spread like wildfire that they were 'engaged in intimate activities.'

The girl's eighteenth birthday came to pass. Her lover, as it was now commonly known, planned a large gathering for her. The whole camp came to life. He had even commissioned a well-known bard for the night. The girl spoke with the bard, and he showed her the basics of the lute. She learned quickly, and so began her bardic ways. The next time they went into a town, he bought her a darkened Vallenwood lute. That evening he took a knife and carefully engraved the elven runes 'Eternal Flame' in the wood, then presented it to her.

Coming back to camp early one day after speaking with Kithar, the young girl overheard a conversation between her love and a man of the camp. _'Are you going to tell her?' "Of course not" 'You should' "She'd kill me" 'You killed them' "So?" 'How long do you think it will take the man who hired you to realize that you did not kill them all?' "Long enough to keep her safe" 'Safe…?'_ The girl had heard enough, she lunged forward, and her dagger was buried to his ribs. That evening they burned his corpse, and the dragon shed silver tears.

She stayed with the camp a few days, unsure of what to do now in her life, as every person she had ever trusted betrayed her. It was that day that they struck, fiery red dragons, and acidic blacks swooped down from the sky. The girl fled into the shelter of the trees while Kithar valiantly fought off the numerous dragons. The camp went up in flames.

Slowly, presuming everyone dead, the dragons left. The girl quietly crept over to the fallen form of Kithar. He lay gasping his last breaths, and he bequeathed his silver scales to her, so that they might protect her where they failed to protect him. With that the dragon exhaled one last time, and never took another breath.

The girl burnt the dragon's body after cutting free the scales. She rode into Palanthas and commissioned the forge to create her armor. In the tavern there, the girl remembered the 'good ol' days' in which she would thieve with the best of them, and she decided she was in much need of practice. Setting her sights on a man in a stiff black uniform that obviously covered poorly fitting chain mail, the girl tugged her already low cut gown even lower. She walked up and slipped onto the bench beside him, running a hand up his coat; the other deftly slices open the bottom of his coin purse. Brushing a kiss on his lips as he remained unresponsive, the girl stood up, and appeared to sulk as she walked off.

The girl left the tavern and slowly headed over to a different one, in this tavern she sat down and ordered a light wine. After she downed the wine in a few gulps, she laid her head on the table and proceeded to cry over everything that had happened in the past few months. After she became fairly inebriated, the girl stumbled up into a bed at the tavern. Then next morning she went to the smithy. The smith informed her that the armor would take at least two weeks to finish. With that as her prospects, she went to yet another tavern, and introduced herself as a bard that would be in the area for a few weeks, a student of Thom Lightharp.

Just short days after she had picked up her armor she quit her job at the tavern. Ever since having it created, she wore it. She walked out of the tavern, and turned left, into a dark alleyway. It was the last thing she remembered doing for a long time.

Pain, too much searing pain, first in the shoulders, then it spread down her arms. The weight of the armor that she had grown accustomed to was gone, and in its place were threadbare, dirty, smelly rags. Her wrists were bound with bloodstained rope behind her back, and a rusty metal collar was loose around her neck, a rusted iron chain connected it to a wall. Her lip was cracked and bleeding; she sported a blackened eye.

A man with an eye-patch knelt down beside her, a hideous grin spreading across his face. The words spoken marked the beginning of her life, and so therefore are to be recorded. All other conversations involving her prior to this hold no sway on whom she is now.

"Heh heh heh, poor lil' lass, the High'lord, bless 'is soul to etern'al darkness, 'e ain't too kine to Sil'vers."

The girl licked her lips, and then spoke in a raspy voice, "A 'Sil'vers'?"

"Silen'ce lil' lass." His grin became even more hideous and his face contorted into a mask of terror as a short, burly man... obviously of dwarven decent walked in, his bright red beard tucked firmly into his belt, and his hand resting menacingly on his battleaxe. "Telling tales, Rat?" The dwarf asked, "Master doesn't like it when you tell tales."

The man, Rat, turned terrified and fled the room. "Master wants to see you lass." The dwarf walked slowly over to the chain, and took it in his hands and broke it. "Lass, you will be following me."

The girl glanced over at what seemed to be the exit of her prison, "And do'an you be a-trying to run, the Master would not be liking that." She followed the man—the dwarf—out of the barely lit cave and up a flight of rough stairs that constantly seemed to trip her. It was with defiant tears in her eyes, that she was presented before the Master.

She walked in, her will unbending, and while she knelt before the Master, she felt the gentle but demanding brush of a mind against her own. She jerked her head back, and looked around in fear. There was only the Master and his dragon.

"Dragonrider." The man spoke softly, "what brings you to my," he flicked his hand impassively over the room, "humble abode?"

She stared at him. "Now, now, don't be shy. You don't get anywhere in the ranks by being shy." He paused to let his eyes wander over her body, "of course, with that," he flicked his hand in her direction, "it's hard to tell whether you could get anywhere by... other means."

"My name, Sir, is Arcander Whitewind, and I am no Dragonrider."

"Ooh, a feisty one. We'll enjoy breaking you." He stands up and walks over to her, brushing his hand against her hair, "Well, if you'd be so kind then my 'dear' would you explain how you came upon silver dragon armor." Her hair brushes aside, "You're an elf!"

"I noticed."

"A dark one, are you, no... Whitewind... ahh... if I remember correctly their residence burned down a few years ago."

"If I am dark it is because I have spent too much time in your presence, or lying in the dirt of your... 'humble abode'."

"You do have a faint odor. But that is to be expected, join my ranks, Dragonrider, and we shall see how quickly you work your way to the top."

He had insulted her one too many times. "My armor, sir, give it and I will bother you no more."

He smirked and beckoned her to come to him. "Come here, little Dragonrider, and I will give you a new set of armor."

She walked to him slowly, her head down; when she was in front of him she quickly drew his sword, and ran him through. "See, I am no longer bothering you." She smirked at him and sliced her bonds and then turned slowly on her heel and walked out. She made short work of the place, and quickly located her armor, lute, and money purse. She turned to address the remaining servants of the Highlord, "If any of you wish to live, place your service with me." She looked around, "No one? Very well," and with that she set fire to the warren.

She exited and was greeted by a young black dragon. _I have been searching for you,_ the dragon whispered into the depths of her mind, _why have you not answered my call?_ She stared in mild interest at the dragon, "And you are?" _Forgive me, Highlady, I am Santh a young dragon, by human standards you would consider me a young adult, but that is not the point. I am here to serve you, Mistress Whitewind._ "A rider of a black dragon should not be known as Whitewind, hence forth, I am Arcander Darkscourge." _It fits you, Mistress…Darkscourge._

**Months Later**

Seated at a small rotting desk, in a lopsided chair with a threadbare cushion, Arcander Darkscourge sat writing in scrawling letters orders to her faction. "Vartus has not come by recently, has he forgotten his orders?" She muttered to herself, as she absently wrote another line on the parchment. "He should have been here weeks ago, I wonder if it is this Key everyone talks about that is holding him up. A group of misshapen adventurers has it, hmm... it might be something to consider going after, think of the possibilities."

She sealed the letter and walked down the crumbling steps to the courtyard of Dargaard Keep. Spying a goblin loitering around she snarled at him and gave him the letter to deliver to the head of the Dark Knight's division. "And be quick about it too!" She then paused to let her gaze wander South to the unseen presence of the Tower of High Sorcery and then she looked over to where the dragons were training in the sky, "Soon, soon they will be strong enough to penetrate the Grove, and it shall be mine!"


End file.
